


the jackalette

by hollypastl



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Post-Time Skip, Reader-Insert, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:42:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28680549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollypastl/pseuds/hollypastl
Summary: being on a pro sports cheer squad actually IS the most glamourous of jobs-bokuto/reader where you're on the msby black jackals dance team
Relationships: Bokuto Koutarou/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	1. mic drop

With nothing in particular going on in your mind, you absently waited for the drum solo to start booming through the stadium. Other girls were chatting amongst themselves, or fluffing their hair to perfection. You preferred to take the few minutes before a performance to flush every thought out of your head.

When you were younger and inexperienced, you’d pray with the time. Not to any god, spirit, or person in particular. If you had to put a name down, probably just the universe. But it was a way to find solace in the anxiety before going out there on stage.

Nowadays, as a professional who was somewhat more confident and drastically more skilled, the liminal time served as nothing more than a space to locate peace. An activity that became easier and easier every time you did it.

“Alright ladies! Fall in line!” The captain called. Without question, every girl got in single file, fixed their posture and started putting on their thousand watt smiles. A staff member swung the door open and suddenly the noise got a lot louder, then the music started and everyone started jogging out, clapping their pom poms together and waving to the fans.

The announcer’s voice shot through the stadium, “ **Give it up for the Jackalettes!** ” 

The crowd responded tenfold, from the high pitched screams of young women who wanted to be them to the low howls of middle aged men who wanted to screw them.

On your mark, at attention, you waited sixteen beats through the synth line for the vocals to come. Like usual, some overplayed song was first on the docket for the day and you danced in unison with everybody to the music some suit had probably chosen.

At least it was basic choreo that hadn’t taken too long to learn. _‘Hip. Pop. Hip, hip. Pop. Then arm swing. Arm swing. Back, spin, drop, roooooooll.’_ You winked at some random in the audience and continued on. 

Two routines later, an ending pose with you in splits and everyone tossing their pom poms in favor of sporting the Black Jackals signature claws with cutesy growls, and some skits with Jackkun, the players piled onto the stadium, gearing up the crowd even more with their own whoops and cheers. Since it was a home game, they went through their own ten minute minute structured warm up, showing off with spiking drills, receives, playful volleys, and serve after serve after serve.

From there on, the show/game was calculated and easy. Not that anyone outside of sports performance would know. What seemed random was actually a carefully curated code of action. Volleys over three called for a routine that went on until a point scored, ending in different ways depending on which team got it. Points from a spike differed from block points. Setter dumps, service aces, _no touch_ aces, line calls, basically every outcome called for different moves. Even crosses versus straights, which were sometimes tough to call from your vantage point.

In the beginning, it had been hard to remember. It was (near needlessly) complicated, required you to watch and understand a sport you had never paid attention to before, and react on almost instant reflex with no mistakes. At the same time, with nearly three years on the squad, it was all muscle memory. From so much time spent watching their games, part of you thought you wouldn’t do half bad and analyzing and predicting their gameplay. 

All you would have to do is watch, take an educated guess on the play and whether or not you’d have to do a ball change or a slide step next, and translate that from dance terms to volleyball. _‘Huh,’_ You thought, biting on your cheek, _‘Maybe I should switch to sports commentary or something. Dad did always say I have a nice, even voice. I wonder what the pay’s like… Hold on, do I need a degree for it? And is the sexism gonna be worse in that field or—’_

Your brain flicked back on as it registered a chance ball flying over the net and clocked that in as volley number four. With a glance at your captain, she stylishly led you all into a formal cheer. _Clap twice. Shoulder roll, turn and turn, swing, snap, rock. Face the crowd—_

Something bumped into you. _Nose, meet floor._ Your dumb brain kept narrating. Pain exploded through your face and you concluded the bump was obviously something more like a head on collision. Your head spun and voices rang around you. Fellow dancers and staff, mostly. 

“Holy shit, I am so sorry. Are you okay?”

“Somebody grab the team doctor, I think she hit her head!”

“ **Uh oh, folks,** ” The announcer voice was as annoyingly loud as ever. “ **Looks like we’ve got a player-cheerleader collision.** ”

As you lifted yourself, aided by a hand supporting you, something wet dripped from you. ‘ _Tears?’_ It didn’t hurt that bad. Fabric was pressed to your face, and as your eyes focused downwards, it started to stain red. ‘ _Oh. Blood.’_

You took hold of the fabric— cloth... Or was it guaze? And eased the pressure a bit, letting the other hand fall away. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, just took a tumble. It’s alright.” Your voice was muffled and the doctor who crouched in front of you ignored your words, pointing a pen light at you and checking for a concussion. 

“Are you feeling nauseous?”

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

“Also, no.”

“Do you think you can walk?” 

You nodded, already getting irritated with this whole situation. 

“Alright, let’s get you up then,” You rose up slowly, someone’s hand doing most of the lifting for you, and balanced with a firm grip on the doctor's arm. “Thank you for your help, Bokuto-san.” The hand lifting you fell away. 

“Sorry, again.”

“Please, don’t worry about it. There’s no serious injury to our friend here. Get back on the court and play well.”

You were led away, back into the concrete hallways of the stadium. 

**— — —**

One of the reasons you auditioned for the MSBY Black Jackals over other teams was their uniforms. Black and gold were good colors on you and although cheer squad costumes changed multiple times a season, the designer was smart, considerate, and not afraid of the suits in finance and marketing. Nobody got wedgies. The fabric was high quality material, even the tights, which must’ve been expensive. Most importantly, everything was _secure_. No split seams, no wardrobe malfunctions, no slipping. 

The only downside was it got kind of cold when you weren’t dancing your ass off. Then again, it might just be that the infirmary was straight up cold. The thermostat was too far away to see.

Regardless, the doctor had left a while ago. You didn’t have a concussion and although it would be sporting a nice bruise tomorrow, your nose wasn’t broken. They had to be courtside in case of any other injury. So, holding an ice pack to your face, you trudged out into the hallway and headed through the staff only passages to the west end of the stadium. 

Most people left you alone. Others checked on you, asked if you were alright. Some did the latter and then laughed about how funny it had looked on screen. The third time it happened you rolled your eyes and flagged down a passing golf cart, getting the poor intern to drive you the rest of the way.

The cheer squad dressing room was empty. A mess, but empty. Makeup, hair product, body glitter, and random articles of clothing were strewn about the room, waiting to be cleaned up after the game had ended. Even so, you actually preferred it this way. It was perfectly quiet and the smell of hairspray had faded just enough that it was familiar, rather than overwhelming. 

With care, you stepped over duffel bags and makeup boxes to your locker and pulled on some sweatpants. 

A rapping sound came from the front of the room and you turned your head when a muffled voice called out. _‘Is someone knocking on the door?’_ You thought as you crossed the room. It was strange. None one on the squad bothered.

You swung the door open. Half expecting it to have been an auditory hallucination. Those were common after concussions, right? Maybe you needed to get checked out again.

“Hi.

It took you a second to connect the face with the name. “Hello, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto. _Bokuto..._ Hadn’t the doctor mentioned him back on the court? He was the one that helped you to your feet.

He sighed in relief. “I’m really glad you’re still here, I thought you might’ve gone home already. Your face looks okay!”

Your eyebrows furrowed while your subconscious screamed that you didn’t have any makeup on. “Thank you?”

He paled. “Oh! I didn’t mean it like that! I meant that it looks a lot better without all the blood!” His hands flew around while he talked. “Anyways, I just wanted to say I’m sorry again, ‘cause you were kind of out of it back there. I wasn’t paying attention— well I was. I was paying attention to the ball, not you. But that’s really not an excuse.”

Oh. So Bokuto had been the one to crash into you, as well. “Listen, I’m alright, so it’s fine. Please, don’t worry about it.” You waved a hand.

“It’s really not.” His expression steeled. “It’s not fine. I don’t know if you saw the replay, but I could have really hurt you. You are… teeny tiny, compared to me, and I came flying at you without even thinking. Doc told me we’re really lucky you just got a nosebleed, but I still want you to know I’m really sorry and it won’t happen again.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, mulling over his words. He was right. Now that you think about it, when you had waved it off and told him it was okay, part of it was because you didn’t expect his apology meant all that much. Even though your back had been turned and there was no way you could have avoided him, you blamed yourself for being in the way. You waved it off like an employee to her boss.

Your lips quirked up. He viewed you as an equal, rather than a subordinate. You stuck out a hand. “Thank you. That means a lot and I really appreciate it.” 

A buzz went off in the halls with a mechanical voice following behind it. 

_“This is the half-time five minute warning. The game will resume in five minutes.”_ It repeated a couple times.

“That’s me. Gotta run.”

“You guys winning?”

He grimaced. “We’re down by a few, right now, but I am not planning on losing today.” He explained, already taking off in a jog. 

“Good luck!” You called.

“Thanks!” He turned, now running backwards through the curving halls. “You know what? Todays win’ll be dedicated to you!”

You two waved each other off in your separate directions. Him, back to the court, you, back to your icepack and then the infirmary. You watched the rest of the game on the TV and couldn’t help your grin when they won.


	2. positions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> choreo for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XyS8WwQe6gk&ab_channel=FEEDBACKDANCESTUDIO

Injury or not, you had the next day off. From your regular job, at least… There were still classes to teach at the studio. Peering at your reflection in the mirror, you examined the blooming bruise that spread from your nose to halfway across your under eye. It was an angry mix of dark red, and blue, which would no doubt give way to dotting purple and a sickly, jaundiced yellow in the next few days.

You poked a finger at it.

Didn’t hurt…

And scrunched your nose— 

_“Fuck.”_ You muttered. “Note to self, don’t move face.” You turned on the shower and left the bathroom to go throw your pajamas in the laundry hamper.

An hour later, you balanced a sandwich, coffee, and your purse handle in one hand while you shoved the key to the studio in the door. Silently, you shrugged off your coat and tied your shirt to the side, then dug into breakfast. Early birds trickled in, calling good morning and finishing up their own morning routines. You got to work, kicking the classroom door open, switching on some music, and slipping the stereo remote in your waistband. With the studio lights on now, and your bruise uncomfortably visible in the mirror, you slipped on a mask that hid it exceptionally well.

By the time the main drag settled in, you started everyone on warmups. Basic stretching to prevent injuries and whatnot. While you called out different stretches and counted them through, you set up the camera and synced in to the sound equipment.

You clapped twice to get everyone's attention. “Alright, I’ll do one demo, then we’ll all do a few run throughs of the choreo together, and then we can get filming. Groups were posted last week on the board, so don’t ask me who you’re dancing with, because I don’t remember!”

Everybody laughed at your joke while you got in position, hit play on the music, and tossed the remote to someone off to the side.

As the R&B beat hopped along, you free styled for sixteen or so beats, jumping from foot to foot, rocking hips, and swinging your arms. Softly, you sang along, _“I’m jumpin’ through hoops. Know my love infinite, nothin’ I wouldn’t do. That I won’t do, switchin’ for you.”_ When the verse’s vocal line breathed in, you fell in line.

 _“Perfect, perfect. You’re too good to be true.”_ As you mouthed along to the lyrics, (and lowkey struggled to breathe behind the damn mask) you wondered if you should always dance with a one on. There was no pressure to apply the blinding smiles or sultry looks required in cheer.

Coupled with not facing the mirror, it almost made it like you could focus on dancing more. Like you had said, this was your demonstration, not a performance. There was no audience to please, and even if you had one, you wouldn’t want to. Anonymous and alone, all you were doing was showing off mastery of your art. 

Everyone whooped and cheered when you finished and beckoned everyone else to join you on the next run. Carefully, you slipped your mask down to take a swig of water while no one was looking and before anyone who had saw could say anything; called for the rookie you had tossed the remote to to restart the song.

— — — 

Sweaty and tired from practice, you handed the memory card from the camera off to one of the vets who would edit the video and post it up online. Filing into the lobby, everybody had sighs of relief with the session over and done. You bid everyone goodbye as they packed up and answered the occasional question while collecting your own things and throwing out the empty coffee cup you had left on the desk.

“Bye, (y/n)! Get home safe!” 

Your phone buzzed and you waved whoever it was goodbye as well. 

A snapchat. From your captain. She was smiling and throwing up a peace sign. Her face was surrounded by kissy face emojis and you read the caption she had tagged on.

_‘Hope you’re feeling better after yesterday's fiasco! Send me a pic of your poor nose lol I wanna see!’_

Double tapping on her received message, you pulled down your mask and snapped a photo of your front profile.

**(l/n), 11:07am: Thanks for your concern! It looks worse than it feels tbh.**

Was added on as an afterthought in the chat.

You clicked your phone off and scanned the studio. Everybody had left, so you shrugged on your coat, stepped outside, and locked the door. Once more, your phone buzzed.

**Kurasawa Sachiko, 11:09am: omg yeah that does look bad. Make sure to ice it and drink lots of water before next weekend's game. And maybe buy a heavy concealer… There’s no way I can let you on the court looking like that LOL**

As always, she was about as polite as a sorority president: kind and motherly, but insanely passive aggressive at the same time.

**(l/n), 11:09am: Will do! Thanks for the advice**

Someday you would hatch a plan to get Kurasawa fired and steal her job. Even if the woman wasn’t an outright bitch, you still couldn’t stand her. Maybe because you hated her choreography choices? Or that she sent work related business through Snapchat.

“Oh, hey! Cheer squad-chan!” A beat behind, you registered that someone was probably addressing you. You looked around, trying to determine where it had come from. “Over here!” Across the street, someone waved at you.

The player from yesterday. You tucked your phone in your pocket and gave a little wave back. Bokuto jogged across the street, (which was thankfully empty because he didn’t look both ways?!) and greeted you properly. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name yesterday.”

“It’s (l/n) (y/n). And don’t worry about it, game days are pretty hectic when they go well.”

“I know, right? When something does go wrong it just makes everything ten times worse.” You snorted at how true that was.

“So, you out for a run or something? Do you guys ever take breaks?” 

He rolled his eyes playfully, “Doesn’t look like you’re one to talk. The day after an injury and I’m already catching you post-workout. I didn’t even know there was a gym in this neighborhood!”

“There’s not, my dance studio is here.”

He lit up. “No way! You’re with Reset? I love you guys!”

“I would have never thought someone like you would be into that. That’s so cool.” Wary of the time, you checked your phone and sighed through an apology. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta go. I don’t wanna miss my train.” You explained, already peeling away. Hopefully he wouldn’t be one of those people that refused to let the conversation end and make you miss the train. If he did, you were totally putting him on your shit list. You could let one bloody nose slide, but making you late for lunch with the leftover yakitori sitting in your fridge would be an unforgivable sin.

“Mito Station? I’ll walk you.” You halted.

“I don’t wanna keep you from your run.”

“Ehh, I’m pretty much done, don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

He looked back, slowing his pace to allow you to catch up. “I mean I just thought it’d be nice to talk for an extra ten minutes but I can leave if you wanted to be a mysterious main character alone on the sidewalk…”

Your face heated up at the accusation. “I do not have Main Character Syndrome.” You muttered with grit teeth.

“Sooooo…”

Your eyes flickered to him. “So…”

“Your bruise looks a lot worse.”

Any tension from his earlier comment and the awkwardness after dropped from your shoulders.   
“Thanks.” Followed flatly. “How about you?”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Huh?” 

“I watched the clip from yesterday. I took a total nosedive straight to the floor, but you must’ve rolled— what? Three times before hitting the crowd barriers?”

“Ohh! Yeah, no, I’m fine. That stuff’s actually made flimsy on purpose, so we can barrel on through. 

Huh. File that under things you learned when you were today years old.

“Seriously though, sure you should be running around town and dancing up a sweat?

“Doc cleared me and it’s not like it hurts.” Bokuto squinted at you. “ _Seriously._ ” You threw back. “It’s not like I sprained my ankle.” He looked at you. You looked at him. “Or should I say ‘It’s not like _you_ sprained my ankle’?”

“I said I was sorry!”

You chuckled. He sure was easy to rile up. “I’m just pulling your leg. Anyways, thanks for walking with me. See you around?”

“Yeah, see you.” He watched your head disappear underground and stretched his arms over his head, mentally preparing for the last three miles of his run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is bokuto in character????


	3. BOO! x billie jean x b f it up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bokuto doesn't know how to do taxes and neither do i :)))

“Alright girls! Great practice!” Kurasawa clapped her hands together to gain attention. “Everybody’s moves looked super clean and polished but I’d love to see some more energy. We’ll start off with some exercises on Thursday which will totally give us a boost. Also I’ll drop a green smoothie recipe in the group chat.”

With the amount of energy the bitch had, you wouldn’t be surprised if her smoothie recipe substituted cocaine for stevia. Beat from a four hour practice, you tossed your duffel bag over your shoulder, scrolled through your email, and headed for the showers. The water pressure was so much better here.

“Hey, hey, hey! (l/n) how are you?” 

Such a loud and happy voice could only belong to… wait that was wrong. Kurasawa also fell under the category of loud and happy. But while she was annoying, like a yappy little dog, Bokuto was more like an excitable bear.

“Hey yourself. I’m good, just off practice. What are you doing here, anyways? Doesn’t the team have the day off for a press conference?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but that’s not for a while. I don’t have to be at the venue until, like... three. I’m just here to pick up my paycheck.”

Finally, your concentration was fully broken from your phone as you processed that. “Don’t you make like eight figures?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, now quiet.

“And you’re… what—? Gonna walk to the bank or go home with that much money in your pocket?”

“Well that’s what I usually do!” 

“You’re telling me this  _ isn’t  _ a one time occurrence?! You do this every month?”

“No! I get paid every two weeks!”

A pain shot through your eye. Probably from the absolute stupidity you were witnessing. “Do you have some problem with direct deposit?”

His face fell blank. “What is that?”

“What is—  _ what is direct deposit? _ ”

He rolled his eyes, plucking his phone from his pocket and swiping off some video— 

“Hey, what’s that?”

“I’m looking up what a direct deposit is.”

“No, no, the video.” You swiped the phone from his hands and double tapped the home button to return to the video.

On the screen, Bokuto danced along to some song —not bad, but definitely not good. Notifications popped on the screen every few seconds. Likes and comments, most of them typesmashes from fans and whatnot.

“It’s doing okay but…” He trailed off, obviously not knowing how to phrase it.    


“You kind of suck.” You stated. Scrolling through the comments, that seemed to be the consensus.

“Compared to you? Uhhh, yeah.”

You pressed on the sound and watched some of the most popular videos, gauging what the dance was supposed to look like. “C’mon, the game routines aren’t even that hard. A ten year old could do my job.” You muttered.

“I was talking about your stuff at Reset Studio. I saw your new video, it’s blowing up on social media.”

“Oh, really?” You asked, paying more attention to the phone you had stolen. “I didn’t even know it was up. Anyways, c’mere. First part’s easy.” You handed Bokuto his phone back. “So it’s  _ ‘Eight point stance lil’ bitch fuck it up.’  _ Then clap, clap. On the  _ ‘Boo’  _ you hit the woah. Cross. Palm to head, then arm around. Walk twice.  _ ‘I could go on’  _ Slo-mo.  _ ‘For days and days, yeah I do the most’  _ Dice roll… Then throw it up, and do a one handed woah. Or two hands, I guess, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Wait, can you do that again?”

You nodded. “Do it with me this time.”

“Clap. Clap. Hit the woah. Palm to head, arm around. Walk. Walk. Slo-mo. Dice roll. Throw it up. Woah. Again with the music?”

“Yeah!” He cheered, already getting hype.

“‘Kay.  _ ‘Eight point stance lil’ bitch fuck it up. Boo. Bitch, I’m a ghost. I could go on for days and days, yeah I do the most. Wait. Wait. Wait. Woah. I’m a shoota, I’m a shootcha’  _ Yeah! Good job!” You clapped. From the corner of your eye, Bokuto had gotten it down without much hassle once you broke it down.

“Yooo! No way! That was so easy! I’m so redo-ing this later!”

— — — 

Rice cooker steaming, you plopped down on the couch and patted your lap. It would be another forty minutes until your stew was done. Now was the perfect time to laze about. Watch some news, check your social media, maybe even doze off for a few minutes.

Koro, slow as ever, must’ve approved of your plan because he deigned to move from his sunbathing spot on the windowsill to your lap. A wise choice in your book. It was nearly five in the afternoon. Prime sunlight was giving way to golden hour. Your lap was a much warmer choice.

Careful not to disturb the old cat, you swiped through Tiktok.

Of course, it was inevitable that Bokuto would show up. His new clip was doing really well, even though it had only been posted an hour ago.

**@bokutobeam: redo 👻**

He’d deleted the other video, but this one was better by far. That much you could tell. It was also obvious he was about to get on stage for the press conference. Although in casual dress, which was standard, the heavy curtains and flashing lights just a few feet from him gave it away. There were even some other team members in view of the camera. Sakusa was sitting on a bench, talking to Meian, and if you had to guess from the zealous camera work, someone social media-savvy, Miya or Hinata, was filming.

You tapped a like and swiped, going through the rest of your FYP. Women complaining about misogyny. Attack on Titan theories and simping. Freestyle raps. The latest dance trend. Hair and skincare. Cooking with the guy who puts parsley on everything. People annoying their neighbors by blasting Crazy Frog. Actually good dance clips. Awww puppies.

“Wait.” You swiped back up and reexamined the dance clip. 

**@resetdancestudio: oh you wanted to know the studio’s position on positions? Uhhhh… we like it. We like it a lot.**

And there you were, dancing solo and repping the studio instead of the groups you had set out. What was your editor thinking? You hadn’t told him to post that.

You chewed on your lip and let the air deflate out of you. Was it worth fussing over? It was against your contract to publicly dance with other groups while you were with the Jackalettes. But you weren’t really recognizable in the video with your mask. You just couldn’t wear that off shoulder top or those jeans anymore. No big deal. (You loved those jeans.)

You shot off a quick message to the editor and the studio’s owner, asking them to make sure not to put you in videos anymore. This one could stay up since it had already gone viral, (seriously, the account had gained at least 500k followers since you last checked) but you’d get in big trouble if it happened again.

And with that, you joined Koro in his catnap. That was enough TikTok for today.

**Author's Note:**

> lowkey inspired by Mooshys' msby black jackals online!! (PLEASE do yourself a favor and read it. I doubt anyone in this godforsaken fandom hasn't, but maybe go and read it again because it really is just THAT good.) I was mesmerized by the romance between the team and staff member (NO I will NOT spoil) in that fic and got to thinking which boys on the team would mesh with certain staff jobs.
> 
> Thus, this.
> 
> I wrote this in the car, on my phone, waiting for my brother to be done with basketball practice, so if there are typos lmk. I'm writing more rn too lol so if yall wanna see it, uhhhh lmk. deadass, Drop ideas and bokuto thirst too, cause I'm usually not all that thirsty for him.


End file.
